Stain
by The Lady Arturia
Summary: Harry is unable to defeat Voldemort and the Dark Lord triumphs, turning the wizarding world into a dystopia. Several months after the battle and continued experimentation on nearly-dead witches and wizards saw the birth of a dozen halflings - half human, half beast - that would do Voldemort's bidding. Amongst them, is an innocent boy who should've died in the war.


**A/n: Written for Camp Potter 2017.**

 **Thursday, First Aid- angst fics using three given prompts**

 **Mandatory: 1. Too late 2. "This wasn't supposed to happen." 3. Stain**

 **Post-war Voldemort!wins dystopian AU. (I've always wanted to write one of these so I'm secretly very happy.)**

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 **Stain**

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It was everywhere. On the carpets, on the walls, even on the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

 _Blood._

How had this happened?

The last thing he remembered was fighting off a Death Eater in the Battle of Hogwarts and losing. The spell had hit him square in the chest and he had fallen to the ground like a sack of rocks. He had died.

Hadn't he?

 _Blood._

Where was this place, anyway? He'd never been in such a grand house before. It would've been beautiful, if not for the crimson stains that covered everything, even the scars of battle; the ripped wallpaper, the exploded furniture, the melted fireplace—everything was covered in splatters of dark crimson turning to black.

He squinted through the pale moonlight, trying to make out the distorted lumps lying on the floor. There were three, as far as he could tell, with bits and pieces of glistening silver shining here and there. Curious, he shuffled forward and squatted down, reaching out to pick up some of the silvery strands. They were silken to the touch, and he let them run through his fingers until he reached its source.

It took him a few seconds to process what it was that he was holding in his hands, and when he did, he screamed.

Throwing the decapitated head away, he scrambled backwards, filled with horror, his heart racing and his mind numb.

"No, no," he whispered, unable to comprehend what had happened.

He looked down at his hands.

 _Blood._

"I don't understand," he whispered brokenly, staring at the jagged claws that protruded from his fingertips.

Placing his palms against his bare chest, he slowly raised his head and stared at his distorted reflection in the shattered mirror across from him.

 _So much blood._

Who was he?

 _What_ was he?

A monster. With pointed ears, beady yellow eyes and a snout. Pale shoulders that stood out in sharp contrast to the blond fur along his arms and chest, matted with blood. Clawed hands and feet.

"Werewolf?" he ventured, but he knew that couldn't be right. Although he looked part wolf, he was most definitely part human and still had a human mind.

He glanced back at the mutilated corpses at his feet. Had he… done this?

"No," he whispered, his shoulders shaking. "No!" he howled, the animalistic sound ripping from his throat as he threw his head back and cried to the heavens.

He sobbed for what seemed like a long time, curled up on the cold, hard floor, shivering in his nakedness. After a time, he decided that if he had, in fact, murdered these people, he wanted to at least know who they were, in order to attach some sense of reason to the madness.

Crawling over to the bodies, he stared at the closest face, the boy's eyes wide, still fearful though unseeing, and his heart stilled.

The Malfoys. He had murdered the Malfoys, in their own home, in the middle of the night, for reasons he was unable to fathom.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he whispered, almost as though he knew, somewhere deep down, why he done what he had. "Not like this. Not like this."

A slow clapping sound began somewhere behind him, and he snapped around, eyes searching for the source of the applause. Someone stepped out from within the shadows, the lanky, dishevelled form sending shiver down his spine.

"Well done," the man, whom he felt like he knew, said, lips curling to reveal gold-capped fangs. "Not bad for a newborn halfling."

"Half...ling?" he whispered, clutching his throat, where he felt a thin chain beneath the fur.

"That's right. You're the first of your kind, you know. We didn't think the experiment would work, but you're more resilient than you seem."

"What… am I?" he asked, his voice choked. "What have you done to me?"

The sneer turned into mocking laughter that echoed around the large room. Suddenly, the man pounced across the room and pinned the boy down, claws digging into either side of his neck. The boy yowled in pain, struggling to push his assailant off but failing.

"What have we _done?"_ the man hissed, his eyes turning into slits. "We saved your life, that's what we did! Be grateful, you mangy mutt!"

The boy felt the claws loosen around his throat, but the next moment he was soaring through the air and crashed into the disfigured fireplace, the jagged wood impaling him. He screamed from pain, hot trickles of blood gushing from his wound.

"Help me! Please!"

The man only laughed, a harsh, cruel sound, as he walked to the boy. "Oh, stop with your whining," he snapped, grabbing the boy by his hair and plucking him off the skewer. He flung him across the room again, and the boy crashed to the floor, his shoulder cracking against the hard marble.

He gasped, the pain making him see white, and the man came to stand over him, looking like he was enjoying the boy's plight. "Feel your neck," he spat, and the boy did as he was told, eyes widening when he felt the semi-circular scabs that had formed where the man had previously grabbed him. The wounds on his back were already healing even as he lay in a pool of his own blood.

"How…?"

"It's because you're invincible! And you have the Dark Lord to thank for that!"

"Th—The Dark Lord?"

"That's right! If you want to repay the kindness and compassion he's shown you, then you'll pull yourself together and do his bidding as you did tonight, yeah?"

"I did this?" the boy asked, tasting iron on his tongue. He spat blood onto the white floor, staring at it in relief. It was crimson. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

"That you did, my boy, that you did," the man said, ruffling the boy's hair a little too hard.

He stared at his blood-stained palms once again, feeling sick to his stomach. "Who was I, before you turned me into—into a _monster?"_

He needed to know.

 _All the blood._

He needed to know, even if it was too late, that he had at least been a good person before he had massacred a family in their home at the command of a madman.

"What, you still don't remember?" the man asked. He scratched his chin. "Hm. Looks like your memory's still a bit wonky." He grinned. "Ah, well, isn't it better that way? It'll help you live with yourself, won't it?"

"Please," the boy begged, tugging at the chain around his throat.

The man nodded at the chain. "Your tag has all the details you should need. You can't expect me to remember the name of every halfling we created, do you?"

The boy swallowed thickly and fiddled around until he located the metal tag attached to the chain. Tugging at it so he could read what it said, he ignored the sharp pain as the metal links cut into the skin at the nape of his neck, his brain processing what he was reading.

He swallowed thickly, the smell of dead people finally overpowering him.

 _Blood. Blood. So much blood._

"Hurry up, we've got places to be. What does it say, then?" the man asked, although he looked the least bit interested.

The boy swallowed, tears pricking his eyes. He murmured something unintelligible and the man made an impatient grunt.

"What's that?"

The boy slowly rose to his feet, feeling a sense of dread settling over him.

He had been right. He _had_ died. At least, the person he used to be, had. Letting go of the tag, his hand falling limp at his side, he stared at his new master, a sense of complete and utter hopelessness enveloping him. He opened his mouth and whispered the name of the boy he once was, already accepting the fact that he was that person no more.

"Colin Creevey."


End file.
